Clubbing clothes
Sitting on the uninviting lonely, harsh plateform of Paddington, sharing a benson and hedge cigerette weakth her shivering boyfirend. This Saturday early morning is a commune for the drunken rejects of the world, and for the first time, we are not quite the worst off; by comparison we are looking quite good. Misplaced, unsettled tourists don't even look —a couple ask for diections. We begin spreading our damp ,quivering bodies all over the cold floor, watching stumbling travellers struggle with the escalator.
I browsed down at my follow we had about 2 hours before the train came. The wind blew staight threw my clubbing clothes. As far as I can rember that is the time I felt the most old and pitiful.
Thsi is when I first saw her! She climbed out of the waiting room with the last of her enegry. Her faded pink sweatpants has seen better days , and her feet are buried into city stained slippers. If I had not known betterI could have swared she was a ghost.. They are eyes dazed with the work it takes to stay warm, and weary of the excess of privileged people.. If I had not known betterI could have swared she was a ghost.. I looked at her bent up body and thinking she reeks of survival ; that I'm too cold to move , and all I have to worry about is killing time before I go back to my ovely soft warm bed..
Out comes her decrept, shaking hand.
We look through our pockets but find nothing but reciepts.
The darkeness of the city swallows her descending, sorry shadow.
Ligh up another cigrette. I feel myself trying to slip into a slumber, but the stone cold floor drags me back.. I stare for a while envoisuly at the couple takig up the only bench.
Then out of nowhere she returns.. Her decrepid hand, tired of begging, had come back.
Unexpectectetly she dropped a grubby pound coin into my hand and said, " get something warm in ya. Merry Christmas."
The city swalllowed her up again without a word I quitely thnaked her .